


Remember. Respect.

by noodlecatposts



Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Azriel POV, Complete, Illyrian Camps, Illyrian Training, Illyrians, Killing Power, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr request, Young Bat Boys, siphons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: The shadows came first...The flying came next...Illyrian powers can take a while, they say.Azriel unlocks his killing power.Tumblr Request from @kayrakhan.
Relationships: Azriel & Cassian & Rhysand (ACoTaR)
Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612852
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42
Collections: Acotar





	Remember. Respect.

**Author's Note:**

> Angst ahead! We’re headed to the Illyrian mountains of Azriel’s childhood!  
> I hope y’all are prepared! Because I was NOT.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely @kayrakhan on Tumblr.  
> I 100% would never have written this otherwise. :)

The shadows came first.

From dark, endless nights locked in solitary confinement, with little less than particles of dust for companionship. Sometimes Azriel drew pictures in the dark, in the dirt, narrated what he thought they looked like to his friends. The corner he called Anders; Sera sat behind the door. He’d tell them of the great pine trees he was trying to draw, sketching from a hazy memory of the time one of the Illyrian warriors flew him to his mother. The trees were taller than he thought possible; greener than he’d realized green could be.

One day, they answered.

⁃ ⁃ ⁃

The flying came next.

Cassian and Rhys are bastards, Azriel thinks, face shoved in the dirt. The smell of earth deep in his nostrils. It’s not the first time today he's met this fate, and it won’t be the last either.

They teach him to fly in the dead of night, on rest days when the recruits are given leave. Azriel’s newfound companions lead him out into the woods and throw him off of cliffs, knock him out of trees. He yelps like a kicked pup every time, plummets to the ground.

They laugh. Cassian’s head thrown back in delight, and Rhys’s arrogant smile plastered on his face. The little lord could fly before he could walk, Azriel imagines, and Cassian isn’t the type of kid to be left behind, even though the warbands tried. Repeatedly.

“Everything happens in due time,” the High Lord’s consort would reassure him later, once his tormentors wandered off to bed. She’d sit him down and comb the briars from his hair, even though Azriel knew the other boys would mock him for it, and the generals would demand he pay penance for weakness in the ring.

But these quiet moments of affection were some of the first experiences he’d ever had. Lady Sorcha's touches were kind and gentle, so different from the hateful shoves and slaps of his earlier years. Azriel savored them, leaned into her touch now that he was no longer afraid of her contact. 

Rhys’s mother would listen to what little Azriel had to say, let him get out his quiet ranting. Then she’d console him, tell him it was hard to learn later on. Flying is to overcome fear. Fear is natural. Then she’d wipe the dirt from his cheek and tell him to get out there and try again tomorrow.

So, he did. And when Cassian shoved him off the cliff the next day, while Azriel was distracted listening to Rhys’s epic-length retelling of Velaris, something snapped into place for him.

And Azriel _soared._

⁃ ⁃ ⁃

Illyrian powers can take a while, they say.

Cassian and Rhys are too kind, of course. His brothers have already unlocked that beastly instinct from deep inside their bodies, let it loose to prove their worth. Rhys is the High Lord’s son and heir; his magic manifested differently from the rest of them, shattered the beautiful midnight blue siphons he’d been given.

Cassian’s power rang true to his heritage. He’d nearly wiped his opponent from existence the day his power manifested; his enemy had been particularly mouthy. A bold decision considering who the older soldier was up against, but age equating wisdom was a construct in their society. A lot of good that did Cyrus.

 _It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see how weak you are. She’d be asha—_ BAM.

Cyrus was out of the arena for months. Another chipped shoulder with their eye on Cassian.

Yet, some Illyrians never unleash the training power. There are plenty of grunts in the Illyrian army, males who never earned siphons. Males that never proved themselves worthy.

“I could be one,” Azriel confessed to his brothers one night. They’d shoved him off the bed without mercy, and Cassian promptly dragged him outside to train.

Azriel thinks Cassian might make an excellent Lord Commander one day. Bastard or not.

⁃ ⁃ ⁃

_An **abomination**. _

_Someone put it out of its **misery**._

**_Worthless_ ** _._

_No wonder the lord left you in the **basement**._

_**Shameful. Weak. Mutant.** _

⁃ ⁃ ⁃

Azriel could tell that the blood on his hands didn’t belong to him, but the swirling blue light and delirious shadows blocked any other source from sight. He felt his rage catch fire, needing to find the danger.

He felt his muscles tense with anticipation; his hands clenched into fists at his side. Azriel was a predator, ready to hunt down anything that dared to move. He didn’t know where the sword he’d held vanished to, but Azriel didn’t need it now, didn’t need any weapon to take down the threat. He had—had _this_.

A snarl ripped its was from the warrior’s throat. Azriel doesn't think he's ever made such a sound before, in his few years.

Then the unfamiliar blue light crept its way up to his shoulders, and Azriel listened as his shadows sang along in unison with Devlon's spoken words.

_The killing power._

Shock banked the fire of his shadows, and Azriel’s breathing was quick, haggard as the rest of the world came into view. His vision returned, but his hearing was gone, out of focus, the sound of his blood raging in his ears. It took the young male a while to locate his brothers where they stood, gaping at him from the edge of the arena.

Was that where Azriel was? Camp. He was at camp. They were training.

A groan catches Azriel’s attention, and his eyes snag in horror at the mutilated wings of his opponent. He’d tried to outrun the danger, the result of his taunting words, but Xander was too slow. He’d had to reap what he sowed.

Had Azriel done _that?_

A hand reaches out, yanking Azriel’s arm. Another spark of blue, but it bounces off of an amber shield.

Devlon’s face appears in Azriel’s line of sight. Serious. But not angry. The Shadowsinger feels it as his familiar friends return to his side to protect and calm him, like raw silk blanketing his arms. Azriel wants to disappear, to slink away into the dimming afternoon sun, and hide someplace where Devlon can’t find him and yell at him.

The camp lord shakes Azriel’s arm once, determined not to let the young male disappear. It's a well-known tactic of his. Yet, Devlon’s face goes ashen when a shadow brushes his skin.

“You need to take another look,” the War Lord demands of Azriel. When the boy hesitates, he repeats himself. Voice harsher. “Look.”

Azriel struggles to keep from trembling. Fear only earns you another round in the arena. Azriel is a bastard; he can’t afford to show fear. So, he plasters on his practiced, indifferent mask and turns his honeyed eyes onto his victim.

Illyrian novices are desensitized to gore from an early age, but nothing could have prepared Azriel for the sight of ripped membrane and the broken, delicate bones. His stomach rolled. Azriel shredded Xander’s wings.

His own tuck into his body that much closer. Now that he’d learned to fly, Azriel couldn’t fathom being without the gift. The ability to escape.

“You will remember this moment.” Azriel doesn’t know if Devlon’s words are an order or a statement of fact. They’re true either way. “This is just a taste of it, of the destruction you can create.”

Azriel’s eyes snap to Devlon’s stern face.

“You will remember this moment, and you will respect it. The power. The responsibility.”

The camp is silent except for Xander’s whimpers of pain.

“Do you understand?” Delvon asks, grip tightening on Azriel’s arm. Another spark of blue meetings amber.

Azriel nods once, sharply. “Yessir.”

⁃ ⁃ ⁃

And later that night, as the priestess places the gauntlets on either of his arms, Azriel remembers.

He’ll remember the way the clear stones turned blue when they made contact with his skin. How cold they were. He’ll recall how Lady Sorcha sniffled as she watched the ceremony, quietly both happy and sad, but proud. Always proud.

Azriel will remember Cassian’s shaggy brown hair and Rhys’s wicked smile. How they stared at him in shock afterward. The briefest sparkle of pride in Devlon’s eyes and the smell of burning incense. The sight of broken wings. Of torn membrane and shattered bone. Of the sad cries of his fellow recruit as he was taken to the healers.

Azriel remembers. Respects.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to request something or submit a prompt, let me know on Tumblr. @noodlecatposts
> 
> <3


End file.
